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- Category:
- Soap Box
- Author:
- Phil Scott
- Posted:
- Wednesday, 1 October 2008
A friend of mine — let’s call her Valerie of Stanmore — takes a detailed and personal interest in other people’s illnesses. If you want to know who was ravaged by a hideous infection or how somebody is coping with an aggressive parasite, ask Valerie.
I must admit it makes you feel better about yourself aches-and-pains-wise. How trivial does my tennis elbow seem beside another guy’s neuroglycopenia? (The irony is I don’t even play tennis. How unfair is that? Maybe it should be called “wanker’s elbow”. But no, then I’d have it in both arms.)
I don’t mean to suggest Valerie is gleeful about people’s pain. Far from it. She is an immensely sympathetic woman. Her obsession is a kind of lesbian voodoo rite, designed to keep the evil spirits of sickness at bay.
It’s a rite I must learn to practise, because I’m about to take the plunge. Yes, I am one of the 40,000 Australians dropping out of private health cover.
That miserable worrywart John Howard frightened me into joining a private fund. That, plus the long wait at RPA one night when I had an asthmatic meltdown.
Emergency departments seem to have an official policy: customers who are ill through no fault of their own get seen last.
First they deal with morons who have inflicted harm on each other out of raging drunken stupidity. (Or that’s how it looks when you’re quietly wheezing in the waiting room.)
Incidentally, if you ever need to go to emergency, say you’ve been set upon outside DCM. If it’s an ingrown toenail, tell the triage nurse you think you are having a heart attack — you’ll get seen to faster. Then, when the heart comes up all clear, they look at your other problem. It can take a while but at least you’ll be lying down. Just a hint: take your iPod for waiting room entertainment.
It works best if you have that “high risk” look about you, so wolf down a big tub of Serendipity ice cream beforehand as well.
Over time, all of John Howard’s old policies have worn thin. (Let’s face it, they’d worn thin by 1960.) That includes his private health insurance scare campaign. Now I look at my monthly direct debit of ever-increasing health fund fees and feel ripped off.
“I was hale and hearty the whole month,” I think. “That money was wasted. I could have spent it at my favourite French restaurant on something swimming in butter and cream, with a squeeze of lemon to dissolve the cholesterol.”
Because I’m so cheap, I joined a young person’s starter scheme. It covers getting your teeth cleaned professionally, and 1 percent of your gym fees. Fine: a nice smile and a functioning body are what I am aiming for. On the other hand, if I clutch my forehead, go cross-eyed and keel over, my health fund doesn’t want to know. An ambulance? “Taxi!” Hospital? “Take him to the Matthew Talbot.”
So I am opting out. With Valerie as a role model, I reckon I’ll be okay.
Tags: health insurance, star spangled banter
